Roosh’s Argentina Compendium: Pickup Tips, Guides, And Stories

By Roosh

Roosh’s Argentina Compendium is a book that helps you sleep with Argentine women in Argentina without having to resort to prostitutes. It gives travel information and stories on eight popular cities while sharing the best advice and analysis on how to pick up the women. It is available in paperback and ebook.

Contents

The 64-page Compendium is organized into four chapters:

• Girls & Game
• Guides
• Stories
• Favorite Reader Comments

Here’s what you’ll find inside…

• The minimum number of approaches you need to do to get your Argentine flag
• The optimum dick vibe you should possess that doesn’t overdo it (with examples)
• Description of strange cultural features and effective countermeasures
• How to avoid the most common trap that an Argentine girl will lay on you
• What you need to know about eye contact
• The two principle strategies you should use to bang an Argentine girl that accounts for the length of your trip
• A simple line to transition to a love hotel
• Enlightening techniques from a local on how to bang his country’s women
• Whether you should start your approaches in English or Spanish
• The type of Argentine girl that is as easy to lay as a Colombian girl
• Ten key insights I learned upon my second trip to Argentina
• Why approaching ugly girls acts as a gateway to better poon
• The reason you can’t escalate on an Argentine girl like you can with a Western slut

The Compendium contains travel and logistical information…

• The logic (or illogic) or traveling to a country that is harder to get laid than in the U.S.
• Humorous analysis that compares Brazilian, Argentine, and American girls
• Detailed guides with day, nightlife, and cheap lodging recommendations for Buenos Aires, Cordoba, Rosario, Salta, Mendoza, Puerto Iguazu, El Calafate, and El Chalten
• Breakdown of street safety for the entire South American continent
• My favorite reader comments that offer additional insight and analysis on Argentine girls, cities, and culture

I also include a handful of more lengthy pieces…

• The shame I felt after my dealings with a Buenos Aires bag lady
• How visiting Argentina has forever desensitized me to beauty
• Blow-by-blow account of my time in Patagonia
• Review of the best sights in Buenos Aires

Two Argentine Game Tips

It’s usually obvious when an American girl likes you because she asks personal questions and starts touching. You can then escalate the encounter and go for a kiss. Argentine girls are a little more tricky. Even if she’s touching, you still have to restrain yourself and wait just a bit longer until she starts giving you a focused look or smiles when there’s nothing to smile about. This is important because if you bite too early, she will close up and you’ll get nothing.

Let me share another quick tip…

Argentine nightlife is pretty easy to figure out. You’ll find tons of bar and club listings on the internet or in guidebooks, but you should do your damndest to avoid those spots because the girls will be excruciatingly hard to lay. Even though Argentina is relatively poor, clubs with their own web sites attract the “rich” and white Argentine girls who are ten times harder to bang. If you want to meet girls who are easier, venture into the seedier bars where they’re are a little darker but no less “Argentine.” Chances are you’ll be the other gringo in the place.

The Compendium is filled with tons of tips like the two above, things that are not common sense to guys who are used to American or English girls. It’s intended for guys who don’t want to spend a lot of time struggling to get Argentine women in the sack and rather learn from a man who dedicated the bulk of his three months in Argentina to figuring out the women. This isn’t a “magic” book that claims you won’t have to put in effort and creativity, but I share so much potent insight and analysis that I guarantee your job at banging Argentines will be far easier.

Order Your Copy

The eBook edition of Roosh’s Argentine Compendium (containing both PDF and ePUB formats) costs only $4.99 and is processed by your choice of Google Checkout or Paypal. That’s about the same price as a large bottle of Argentine Quilmes beer. It comes with a 1 year money back guarantee (overkill, I know). If you don’t like it for whatever reason, email me at roosh (at) rooshv.com and I’ll refund your purchase no questions asked. Click the image below to order the ebook package…

The paperback edition costs $10.97 and comes with a 30-day money back guarantee from Amazon, and the Kindle edition comes with a 7-day money back guarantee. Click the image below to order the paperback or Kindle edition from Amazon…

Good luck in Argentina!

The Difference Between Brazilian & Icelandic Girls

By Roosh

In support of my Brazil Compendium, I put together a little video from Iceland comparing Brazilian and Icelandic girls…

There should be no doubt in your mind about the superiority of Brazilian women. If you’re interested in learning more about them, learn more about the Brazil Compendium.

I’m regularly asked when I’m going to drop knowledge on Iceland. Unfortunately it’s taking longer than I thought to package my notes and stories into what’s turning out to be a huge series of posts. I don’t see that trickling out before May. The good news is once the orgasm begins, there will be nonstop ejaculation of travel data from multiple countries.

Since I know a bulk of you don’t care about travel topics, I’ll aim for no more than one travel post per week, but understand they will be a steady fixture on the blog as long as I’m on the road. I’m confident, though, that most of you will be entertained about how Scandinavian, Eastern European, South American, and American women all stack up, including tips on getting with the two former groups. I consider my current travels to be part of a perverted anthropological project that may result in my strongest work.

The other project I’m working on is the day game book, which I’m happy to say is progressing faster than I anticipated. My best guess right now is a July or August release.

Roosh’s Brazil Compendium

By Roosh

The Strategy Guide For Banging Brazilian Women

Roosh’s Brazil Compendium is the result of what happens when you let a horny man loose in Brazil for seven months—a man who believed the best way to understand Brazilian culture was to sleep with its women. The book can best be described as a hybrid of The Game and Lonely Planet’s Brazil Guide, giving travel information on fourteen Brazilian cities while sharing the best advice and analysis on how to pick up the women. Its main purpose is to help you sleep with Brazilian women in Brazil without having to resort to prostitutes. It is available in paperback or ebook.

Contents

The Compendium is logically organized into five chapters:

• Girls & Game
• Guides
• Stories
• Carnival
• Favorite Reader Comments

It comes out to 98 pages of nothing but Brazil, with a word count that is almost double that of my Bang Colombia guide.

Here’s what you’ll learn inside:

• Descriptions of Brazilian girls by socioeconomic class and how each reacts to Western men
• The personality, look, vibe, and game of the average Brazilian girl
• An explanation into the hyper-fast kissing culture
• The difficulty in pinning down an optimal game to use on B girls
• One important thing you can optimize that has little to do with “game”
• How to reliably identify a B girl who is open to having sex with a Westerner
• A strategy to picking out bars or nightclubs that maximizes your chance of hooking up
• The aggressive strategy that Brazilian guys use to kiss their women
• How to set up an optimal bang progression that doesn’t stall after the kiss
• How to tailor your game for the women of Espirito Santo, a state north of Rio
• Dozens of little tips and tricks that increases your B girl notch count
• How it’s like to run game in Brazil when you have blonde hair and blue eyes
• My thoughts on trying to pick up in Brazilian gyms
• Why you shouldn’t bother trying to meet B girls outside of Brazil
• My favorite reader comments that offer additional insight and analysis on Brazilian girls, cities, and culture

In addition, the compendium contains details on specific cities…

• Travel overviews of Fortaleza, Natal, Praia de Pipa, Recife, Salvador, Foz do Iguaçu, and Ilhéus, with nightlife and lodging recommendations for each
• How to prepare for a trip to Rio with the goal of getting laid, including details on lodging options, day activities, nightclub recommendations, study materials, logistical tips, and ways to mentally prepare
• Detailed travel guides for Vitoria and Belo Horizonte, with a primary focus on where to find girls and how they stack up to what you can find in Rio
• Overview of three pleasant colonial towns (Ouro Preto, Diamantina, and Tiradentes) that are ideal for when you want to take a break from the cities
• A discussion on the merits of a visit to gignormous São Paulo
• An obsessive-compulsive comparison of Argentina, Brazil, and Colombia that will help you plan for future trips
• A detailed report on Rio’s Carnival, and why it may not be the best time for you to get laid

I also include four stories, which will help you further understand Brazilian culture and women. You’ll find out…

• The secret to a Brazilian girl’s mojo that Western women desperately need to take note of
• Why it’s so important for men to attempt difficult or dangerous tasks
• What I did when an upper-class Brazilian girl tried to steal my cheap bottle of champagne
• How a simple meeting with a B girl in an airport affected me in a meaningful way

Two Brazilian Game Tips

I’m sure you’ve probably heard that Brazilian women are fast kissers. Some guys get excited about this and try to kiss as fast as they can, only to be disapointed when the interaction quickly fades afterwards. Through experience I’ve learned that you should not kiss a girl just because she wants it—it’s better to make her wait instead as long as possible to drive her crazy enough that you’re much more likely to get her all the way in bed.

Let me share another quick tip…

Did you know that most hotels (and definitely all hostels), don’t allow you to bring a Brazilian girl back in the room? Luckily for us, there are “love hotels” in every major city where you can cheaply rent a room for a couple hours. I share how to locate a love hotel upon your arrival, put the address in your cell phone, and then simply show that address to a taxi driver when your girl is ready for sex. This avoids the whole “so where are we going” awkwardness that may cause her to change her mind, especially since it’s a guarantee she’ll live with her parents.

The Compendium is filled with tons of tips like the two above, things that are not common sense to guys who are used to American or English girls.

This book is intended for guys who, instead of spending a lot of time struggling with getting Brazilian women in the sack, want to learn from a man who dedicated the bulk of seven months in Brazil to figuring out the women. This isn’t a “magic” book that claims you won’t have to put in effort and creativity, but I share so much potent insight and analysis that I guarantee your job at banging Brazilians will be ten times easier. In fact, a reason I created this Compendium was in response from guys who gained so greatly from my Colombia guide and asked me to do the same for Brazil.

Order Your Copy

The eBook edition of Roosh’s Brazil Compendium (containing both PDF and ePUB formats) costs only $4.99 and is processed by your choice of Google Checkout or Paypal. That’s about the same price as a visit to a Rio juice bar. It comes with a 1 year money back guarantee (overkill, I know). If you don’t like it for whatever reason, email me at roosh (at) rooshv.com and I’ll refund your purchase no questions asked. Click the image below to order the ebook package…

The paperback edition costs $11.97 and comes with a 30-day money back guarantee from Amazon, and the Kindle edition comes with a 7-day money back guarantee. Click the image below to order the paperback or Kindle edition from Amazon…

There are two types of men in the world: those who haven’t been to Brazil, and those who are trying to go back. I hope you can get into that second category. Good luck!

A Dead Bat In Paraguay Epilogue (Part 4 of 4)

By Roosh

PREVIOUSLY: PART THREE

The crowd at the champagne bar was typical: older professionals who wanted to wind down after work. We sat next to each other at a huge table that ran the length of the bar. I caught her up on my life in Rio.

“When I first came here, I fell in love with the city and imagined myself living here, but now I don’t know if I’m ever coming back.” I took a sip of champagne, which was extremely cold because of the salt solution the bartender had put into our ice bucket.

“Why don’t you like Rio?” Mariana asked.

“Well, it’s expensive and dangerous, the traffic is bad, the nightlife sucks, there’s too many gringos, it’s either unbearably hot or raining, it’s dirty, smelly, making friends is hard, and I don’t even like the beach that much. It’s like Rio was a girl who I fell hard for, but once I got to know her, I realized we didn’t have a lot in common. I think it was you who…”

I paused.

“Me who what?” she asked.

“The first time I was here, you made the city better than it actually is.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You don’t have to, but there’s no reason for me to stay here now, or even to come back.”

I noticed that she was touching me often and shifting nervously in her seat. I had gotten her to meet me under the guise of friendship, and while I didn’t expect more, I was sure hoping for it.

“Remember that guy you told me you had just ‘started’ seeing?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, I think that was a lie. I think you invented him to make me feel better.”

“No, I really was seeing a guy! But I’m not seeing him anymore.”

“Oh.”

“And then there was another guy.”

“What?”

“But it was really quick. Very short.”

“So you’re not seeing anyone right now?”

“No.”

“Well, good, because after this bottle of champagne you can come to my place and we can make love one last time.” I smiled, but not too hard since I wanted her to believe I was mostly serious. Just testing the waters.

“Oh, baby, no.” She shook her head. “Let’s just be friends. ”

“I’m leaving in ten days—it’s not like I’m asking for more. But anyway…”

“So did you meet any girls?”

“A couple, but nothing serious. After you ended it I wasn’t too upset because I thought it would be easy to find your replacement, especially since I met you only a week after I arrived in Rio.” I paused a moment. “But I haven’t been able to find another Mariana.”

She smiled, but said nothing. I asked if she was still on her allergy medication. She said she wasn’t. I kept filling her glass and eventually ordered a second bottle.

I was having trouble containing my feelings and said some things I knew I shouldn’t have, but it felt right and she seemed to be getting closer to me. I went with it. There was no need to lie or pretend.

“When I came back,” I said, “I was ready to give us a shot, to see only you.”

“I don’t believe that. I know your type, going from country to country. You probably have girls in each country that you keep in touch with.”

“No, well… no, you’re wrong. No one I really care about,” I said, searching for the right words. “The last time we talked, I got the feeling that you wanted me to make a stronger commitment, to invest more.” I paused again, then asked the question that was on my mind for the past couple months. “I guess what I’m asking is… if I lived here, would things be different?”

She looked at me for what seemed like eternity and said, “Yes, they would.”

I nodded, then the conversation drifted into silence. I tried to kiss her a few minutes later, but she turned her head at the last moment.

“We’re only friends,” she said. “Friends don’t kiss.”

“They don’t?”

“Well, sometimes,” she said softly. Then she gave me a look that said, “I’m going to be vulnerable now… please be gentle.”

I approached again slowly, and when our lips touched, I felt something unusual—something electric that seemed to paralyze my body. Only my lips and mouth were alive, and they were heating up. For the next thirty seconds I felt this heat coming into my mouth, increasing in temperature with every moment. The movements of her tongue triggered flashes of white light on the back of my eyelids. My head seemed to separate from the rest of my body. The people and the music faded into the background until we were completely alone, until I processed not a single thought or sensation besides the heat in my mouth and the lights dancing in my vision. I don’t know how long the kiss lasted, but she pulled away first, leaving my lips hanging in the air. It took several seconds for the sounds of the bar to reenter my consciousness and for my body to reattach itself. I looked at her, confused, as if coming out of a hypnotist’s trance. I swallowed hard and began to rub my hands over my face. Then I excused myself and went into the bathroom so she wouldn’t continue to see the effect she had on me.

The champagne continued to flow and like an octopus I let my hands explore her body, slowly creeping up her leg until she smacked them back down. I just wanted to have her one more time, and then we could be done for good.

Getting her back to my place took quite a bit of convincing. I had to basically sign a contract stating that she’d stay no more than fifteen minutes and that we’d only hug and kiss. Of course she couldn’t help herself once she was lying on my bed, and neither could I.

When it was over, I lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling fan, trying to keep my eyes focused on one of the rotating blades, wondering how a petite Brazilian girl gained so much power over me.

I turned on my side to face her and said, “I don’t see you for three months and I’m leaving, but now we’re… doing things.”

“Well, yes, that’s why,” she said. “This is how I protect myself. Why would I get too close to someone who’s staying a short time?”

We stared at each other for a long moment, and then I said, “I love you.” I didn’t smile.

She laughed.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re not serious.”

“How do you know I’m not serious?”

“Because you’re not ready!”

I saw her twice after that, once for a movie and the other for a walk through a park. Things were decidedly more friendly and nothing got past simple hand-holding or light kissing. She made a reference to having “drunk too much” the night at the champagne bar, and I got the hint. We were just friends—and there would be no additional sex.

After the park, we went for a quick açai and grabbed the same bus. I was emotionally numb. I wanted to get off the roller coaster ride she had put me on and if she wanted to only be friends then fine. It didn’t matter anyway—I was leaving in two days. Even if she wanted to stay with me, I wasn’t ready to move to Rio just for her. She was right.

I told her my stop was coming up. I looked over to her and saw tears streaming down her face, more tears than when I had first left her about two years earlier.

I had trouble understanding why she was so upset. I stared at the back of the seat in front of me until I broke the silence with, “Quero cafuné.” It was a phrase she had taught me, which means, “I want to gently stroke your hair.” She laughed and told me to be sure to use it on other girls.

“I guess our time was two years ago,” I said.

“Yes. I was more open then.”

“I’ll always remember it.”

We both knew I wouldn’t be coming back to Rio again. I gave her a quick kiss, then pulled the cord and walked towards the back of the bus.

It was finally over for good.

—

If you liked the epilogue, download the first chapter for free to see how it all started.

A Dead Bat In Paraguay Epilogue (Part 3 of 4)

By Roosh

PREVIOUSLY: PART TWO

“I think we should just be friends,” she said.

I’d been dumped many times before, where things simply faded away and a girl stopped agreeing to go out with me. Maybe I would run into her later and we’d have sex again for old time’s sake, but not once in seven years had a girl I genuinely liked sat me down and said she never wanted to be romantically involved with me again. The last time I had been hurt, but this time I was angry.

She was about to tell me why when two businessmen sat next to our table. She asked if I wanted to talk on the beach. I agreed. We walked without saying anything, then sat on the sand.

“You don’t have to give me a reason,” I said. “I don’t care, whatever you want.”

“No, but I want to tell you. When we first met, my heart was open, but I can’t do this. I can’t see you for two months and then have you go away again. I can’t suffer like that.”

Oh, god. She was giving me the excuse I had been using on girls for the past year—a spin-off of the ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ routine.

“I understand completely,” I said. “If that’s what you want. I knew something was wrong anyway, because it didn’t feel like last time. You were colder, and from the moment you postponed our date, I knew something wasn’t right.”

“But I wasn’t feeling well,” she protested. “I had allergies.”

“Look, if I was in a hospital bed, half-dying, I’d still crawl out to see you after two years. You just weren’t excited. I told myself, ‘I’m 100% sure she’s seeing a guy,’ and that’s what I still think.”

I looked deep in her eyes because a part of me wanted to know the real reason, even though that reason would ultimately boil down to her not wanting to see me. I needed to know if she had something else going on instead of preferring to watch telenovelas at home rather than spending time with me.

“He’s not better than you, but he’s here. You’re going to leave in two months. Then what am I going to do?”

“The other night you were telling me that you were thinking about having a kid in a year or two,” I said. “When a woman says that, what she really means is that she wants a child right now, and I understand that. You’re at the age where you’re ready to find something long-term, but I can’t give you that.”

“I know you can’t.”

“I guess the only reason we got together in the first place was because you had just broken up with someone. I was the rebound.”

“Yes my heart was open then. I knew you were leaving soon and it wouldn’t mean anything.”

I winced and turned away, my eyes falling upon a group of guys in skimpy Speedos playing foot volleyball.

“But now it’s harder, because you’re staying longer, but you’ll still be leaving again. You’re too…” She fumbled for the right word. “Light.”

“I’m sorry I’m not a Brazilian citizen. I’m sorry I can only stay a couple months at a time, but it’s because I’m light that we even met. It gives and it takes, I understand that. You think this conversation we’re having right now is the first time for…” I wanted to talk to her as if she was a therapist and discuss the pros and cons of living the lifestyle that I’ve chosen, but I stopped short and started making patterns in the sand with my book.

“And you barely kept in touch while you were away,” she said. “Do you know the word cultivar?”

“Yes, to cultivate.”

“That’s what I want. Something that grows. You sent me two postcards, a couple emails, and we talked once on the phone.”

“So you wanted me to call so you could ask when I was coming back, only for me to say, ‘I don’t know, maybe soon.’ What would we have talked about? ‘Hey, Mariana, I’m going out with my friends a lot and writing. Oh, yeah? Great. I can’t wait to have açai again.’”

“Well let’s be friends. And I mean that,” she said. “This Saturday I’m going out dancing with my friends, and I’d like it if you’d come along and meet them.”

“No, that’s okay.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to be just friends. No, it’s either all or nothing with me.”

“So you don’t even want to see me again?”

“We can exchange emails, and maybe have lunch before I leave the country.”

She frowned and tightened her lips. Part of me felt bad for her because after all she was a girl I really liked, but another part of me was pleased that I was hurting her.

“I can’t believe you don’t want to be my friend. You’re blackmailing me! This isn’t how Brazilians do it. We keep in touch. We see each other.”

“Yeah, well, I do things differently,” I said flatly. “I have enough friends anyway.” That was a lie. There was only one other person in Rio I could call.

“Then the only thing you really want from me is my body.”

I said nothing, wondering about the question myself.

She told me that every other guy she’d ever broken up with had jumped at the chance to stay in touch and that I was being silly not to want the same. I refused to reward her decision to dump me with friendship. I wanted her to wonder if she made the right choice by letting me go. She needed to feel genuine loss. I had to inflict either pleasure or pain—nothing in between. I had to burn my bridges because it was the right thing to do.

“I think it’s time for me to go,” I said.

We got up and she insisted on escorting me to my hostel. On the way she continued to push the friendship idea, but I said little, thinking that I wanted her to feel what I was feeling: utter rejection.

“You really don’t have to walk me back,” I said, as if she was following me like a pest. At the end of the block she stopped, but I kept walking.

“Wait!” she called after me.

I stopped, looked back, and said, “Yeah?”

“Aren’t you at least going to give me a hug?”

I sighed, then gave her the most awkward hug I could muster, my body leaning so far forward that only the boney tops of my shoulders touched her body. She stood on her tiptoes to give me a kiss on the cheek, but I pulled away as soon as I felt her lips make contact with my skin.

It was another goodbye, two years and two blocks away from the last one. I took three steps back and stared into her big eyes, which were glassy with tears. She smiled wanly, as if encouraging me to say something comforting, but all I wanted to do at that moment was destroy something beautiful. I raised my hand and said, “Take care.”

I didn’t wait for a response. I immediately turned and walked away.

—

A couple weeks later I got into a fight with Paula’s best friend, Joana, at a samba club. She had discovered my writings and tried to use them against me. The entire night I endured things like, “So when are you going to bang these girls?” “Are you going to learn samba so you can bang a lot of girls?” and “What clubs do you go to so you can bang girls?” I bit my lip. I didn’t want to create a scene, but at the end of the night, while hailing a taxi, she said, “The night is still young enough to bang girls. You should stay out.”

I’d finally had enough. “Can you shut the fuck up about that already. Are you going to do that all the time from now on?”

The ride home was awkward. Of course she told Paula, who cooled toward me afterward, taking days to reply to one of my text messages instead of the usual hour or less. I now had no friends in Rio.

One night about a month after Mariana dumped me, I went to Lapa alone. While walking up the stairs of the club, I ran into her. She was with her sister and didn’t offer to introduce me, as if I was a distant acquaintance, so I just nodded as if to say I see how it is and kept walking.

She found me later and asked what had happened. “You tell me what happened,” I said. “You seemed like you didn’t want to talk and didn’t even offer to introduce me to your sister.”

“You looked upset! It seemed like you wanted to walk away from me!”

I stuck with her for the rest of the night. We sat on the couch and talked about emotions, love, and all sorts of nonsense my friends back home would have made fun of me about. Whenever I looked away, she wiped away her tears. We gently stroked each other’s hands and when she stared at me, I got the feeling that she wanted me to make a commitment and say, “Baby, I’m going to live in Brazil. Let’s do it!” That’s what she wanted, and I felt confident that if I said those words, she would have been mine as long as our relationship could last.

I imagined how my life would be if I chose that route. I’d have to make a permanent move to Rio, and the only way to do that legally would be to get married. We’d be husband and wife, with our own little apartment in Copacabana. Three nights a week I’d cook American food, three nights a week she’d cook Brazilian food, and one night a week we’d go out. I’d support her in her career and listen to her troubles at work. We’d take trips into the Brazilian countryside to get away from the city. We’d be best friends. I’d become an English teacher or get some other job that brought in a regular income. We’d have a Little Rooshinho and I’d find out if I had what it took to be a good father. We’d outgrow our apartment in Copacabana and get a bigger one in Ipanema. I’d become fluent in Portuguese. I’d visit my family and friends in the States once a year. I’d become a family man and have a regular, pleasant life. If our marriage worked, we’d make each other happy until our last days, companions until death. Our graves would be side by side.

I remained silent.

“You were never in love with me anyway,” she finally said.

Besides my gentle touches, I offered Mariana no reason to dump the guy she had just “started” dating to get with me. I made my choice, and I was ready to live with it.

We walked out when the club closed at five in the morning. When we hugged, she closed her eyes and practically dived in my chest, but she didn’t let me hold her long enough to kiss her. She hopped into a cab and at that point I realized she was too sure of what she wanted to be weak for another night or two. I could accept that, but I went to bed wondering how I was going to meet another girl like her. For my remaining three months in Rio I didn’t.

Those were shallow times, going out to drink and fuck random girls in my favela apartment while building very little of substance. There was the pretty daughter of a gastroenterologist, who spoke French and treated me well, but I just couldn’t fall for her. There was a telenovela actress from São Paulo who was gorgeous but spoke no English and was hard to pin down. There was an Argentine girl with a magical booty who tasted like a bar ashtray. There were traveling American girls I slept with only hours after meeting. It’s after these girls, ten days before I was set to leave Rio for good, that I had an overwhelming desire to see Mariana again. I didn’t care if it was “bad game” to contact her or not, so I called and said I needed to see her before I left. She agreed to a date.

CONTINUED: PART FOUR

A Dead Bat In Paraguay Epilogue (Part 2 of 4)

By Roosh

PREVIOUSLY: PART ONE

Nostalgia is a powerful thing. I had a constant smirk on my face while doing all the simple things I had done before, like getting a folhado at my favorite bakery, recharging my cell phone balance at the mobile shop, doing pull-ups on the beach bars in Ipanema, and eating lunch at Delirio Tropical. In Copacabana, I visited Marcelo’s juice bar and was surprised to see him still working there. I walked up to the counter and before I could say anything he squinted in a flash of remembrance.

“I was here two years ago,” I said.

“What’s your name again?”

“Roosh.”

“Roooooooosh, that’s right!”

He put out his hand and gave mine a healthy shake. We chatted for maybe thirty seconds and then he went back to work. I think I was more sentimental about our relationship than he was judging by how quickly the smile evaporated from his face. I wanted him to be more than just my juice guy, but I knew he saw a dozen gringos like me every day and I was lucky he had remembered me at all.

Eventually I ran out of nostalgia. I walked around Ipanema, by the McDonald’s, KFC, and expensive boutiques I’d never stepped into, then thought, “Okay, now what?” I did it. I had come back, just as I’d told everyone I would, and I was about to reunite with my girl, but the mission that had consumed my thoughts for the past two years was almost complete. I felt a little empty, and then I remembered something someone had once told me: “Sometimes wanting something is better than having it.” That was probably why I hesitated in Vitória before returning to Rio. I stayed there ten days instead of three, perhaps subconsciously conflicted about the fact that I was about to finish what I set out to do. I wanted to hold on to wanting just a bit longer.

—

I had no complaints when Mariana pushed our date back one day (because of allergies, she told me) to Saturday night, which was a more proper time for a reunion. We were supposed to meet at the subway station, but it began pouring, so she texted me her address instead. At our meeting time I stood partially hidden under a tree in front of her building, waiting for her to come out.

I stared at her for a good five seconds before she noticed me. It was a careful stare, trying to see what had changed and what hadn’t. Her hair was longer—longer than mine, finally. Her body still looked great and it’s wasn’t obvious that she had aged two years. She smiled when she saw me hiding behind the tree. I gave her a hug, but she seemed decidedly cool, only giving me a weak embrace. The first thing she asked was where the taxi was, and when I told her I had let it go, she sounded annoyed, asking me twice why I’d done that, almost scolding me like a child. If she was happy to see me, I couldn’t tell.

We decided to walk up a steep hill to some local bars in her neighborhood. She had a tiny umbrella, so we both got wet as we lost our breath climbing, and several times she criticized herself for not bringing a bigger one. She was tense and made little effort to help with the conversation. The silences were painful. We hadn’t seen each other in two years, but after five minutes we had almost nothing to say. I thought either she had a serious boyfriend and was simply giving me a token meeting or needed time to warm up to me again.

When we finally settled into the bar twenty minutes later, I decided to approach it as just another date: I’d talk my ass off, tell her the interesting things I had been doing, make her laugh, and touch her more and more as the evening progressed.

“So my book is done. I finally finished it—and you’re in it,” I said.

“Oh, no!” She laughed.

“No, it’s nothing bad. Meeting you was a good way to end the story, I think, after all the bad stuff that happened.”

“What name did you give me?”

“Mariana.”

“How did you pick that?”

“Well, I went on the internet and did a search for Brazilian names, and you seem like a Mariana, so I went with that.”

I told her about the book, carefully avoiding its sexual theme and focusing on the friendships and cities I had visited. Mariana is the type of girl who didn’t care much about my past, but I still didn’t feel comfortable with her knowing about all the girls I had tried to get with before getting with her. I didn’t want to trivialize our relationship by saying it was the culmination of dozens of approaches and brainstorming and effort and game. There’s no romance in that.

By the second hour of our date, we had settled into a fun conversation. She opened up more, telling me about the time she had been robbed at knife-point, the traveling she had done, and the productions she had acted in. There were many moments where we relived our time together and I’d say, “I put that in the book!” Even though she had never seen the book and had no idea what filled its nearly 300 pages, she seemed pleased that she was in it. The whole time I held on to the hope that our reunion wouldn’t be anything less than worthy of the two-year wait.

We moved to a sushi bar and as we walked, she hooked her arm through mine. She seemed to laugh harder at my jokes and gave me longer stares. She asked more questions, and if this had been any other date, I would have been thinking, “This is going well.”

After four hours of talking, we decided to call it a night. On the walk to her apartment we held hands, but at the front door she was prepared to say goodbye and send me on my way. I couldn’t let that happen.

“Can I use your bathroom?” I said. She didn’t answer. Without skipping a beat, I added, “Okay well can you point me to an alley where I can go? Hopefully I won’t be robbed.”

She paused for a few seconds. “No, that’s fine,” she said. “You can come in.”

I knew I’d be staying a while when she offered me a drink. I went into her room and saw that the pictures of her guru were still there, but the shelf of herbal remedies was gone.

“Where’s all your medicines?” I asked.

“What medicines?”

“You know, the natural medicines you used to have in those dropper bottles.”

“I think you imagined that.”

“Are you sure? Because I put it in the book.”

The last bit of nostalgia I had was with her and I milked it for all it was worth. I wanted the wait to be validated. I wanted to be correct that she wasn’t just another notch. I had so many relationships that were meaningless that I needed this one to be real.

“The last time I was here,” I said, “I was a bit messed up, I think. When I went home, I hibernated in my dad’s basement and it took two months until I felt normal again. I’m telling you this because I didn’t want to leave you. There’s a lot of things we didn’t do together.”

“You didn’t have time,” she said.

“I could’ve made time. I could’ve stayed longer. I…”

She put her hand in mine. A few minutes later she led me to her bedroom.

—

There was a peculiar moment the next morning when I left. She gave me a kiss goodbye and said, “Take care.”

“Take care?” I replied.

“Yeah, take care,” she repeated. “Isn’t that what Americans say?”

“Well, ‘take care’ is something you say to someone you’re not going to see for a while. If you run into an old college friend you haven’t seen in years and you chat for a couple minutes, you say ‘take care’ at the end. It means ‘See you in a few years, maybe.’”

“Oh, no, that’s not what I meant at all,” she said. Then she gave me a more proper farewell as I left.

I really wanted to say that she was indeed the one, that I ended the game because of her, that we feel in love and had beautiful Brazilian babies, and that I lived out my days in a tropical country. But that wasn’t the case.

Five days later we met for lunch at her suggestion. Beforehand, I debated whether I should comment on her coolness. I knew something was wrong because all the signs were there: rescheduling our date, getting annoyed at my letting the taxi go, excusing aloof behavior with a made-up illness (allergies), not inviting me back to her place, and giving me an impersonal goodbye. I remembered the first time we met, when she had asked me to come over, but the previous night I had to weasel my way in as if she was any other girl. Her kisses were also different—quicker, colder, and not as sensual. Our lovemaking was more detached. I decided to not say anything and see what would happen. Well, I didn’t have to wait long.

During lunch she barely said a word. Like on our date, I talked and talked to get something out of her, but she responded with simple one-word replies. I had brought a book with me, Milan Kundera’s The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, and the only time she really said anything was when she explained that she had liked his most famous work, The Unbearable Lightness Of Being. Did I have to bring one of his books on every date just to get something going? Whether she was no longer interested in me or not, there is no way I can date a girl who doesn’t talk to me. Disappointment set in.

We finished our meal in silence, then she said, “I have to tell you something.”

I knew what was coming.

CONTINUED: PART THREE

A Dead Bat In Paraguay Epilogue (Part 1 of 4)

By Roosh

(Download the PDF file for all four parts by clicking here.)

“So how was the Northeast?” Paula asked.

“It was just like you said—poor, but with great beaches. I went to Fortaleza, Natal, Pipa, Recife, Salvador, and Vitória. I liked Vitória the most because I swear I was the only gringo there.”

“Vitória? Only businessmen travel there.”

“Exactly. I’d go to a club and guys would come up to me and say, ‘Hey, you’re the gringo, right? I heard you talking outside in English.’ I’d ask questions about how to get girls, just to make them feel like they were teaching the gringo something. The girls didn’t really care, though, and would brush me off. After my last trip, I kind of thought I’d be more welcome by the women if there were no other gringos around, but I guess that’s not always the case. Overall I had a fun time and believe it or not, nothing bad happened!”

“Don’t say that,” she said. “Now something bad will happen. Do you want to get another beer?”

She looked just like I remembered her from when she and her friends had showed me around Rio while I was dealing with my health and mental problems. I initially had planned to stay in a hostel in Ipanema, but she insisted that I crash at her place for a few nights.

In Vitória I ended up staying with a guy who worked at my hotel. He didn’t have a guest bed or sofa, so I had to buy a $40 foam mattress. I hoped it would last the week, but after the first night the foam flattened until it felt like I was sleeping directly on the floor. When Paula told me she didn’t have a mattress, I reluctantly rolled and tied the piece of shit up with rope and hauled it to Rio by bus. I’m certain other Brazilians thought I was homeless because I hadn’t shaved for a few weeks.

Paula and I caught up on things in the bar by Copacabana’s beach. I arrived two hours prior and for the last half of the bus ride my stomach was grumbling loudly, but I wrote it off as a bad case of gas. Not once in the past seven months, the first six spent in Colombia, had I gotten a stomach illness. During my last trip I had learned to cook most of my meals and limit the street food, but in the last month I had gotten cocky and started eating from the street again. At the Vitória bus station I ate an odd-tasting coxinha de frango, a deep-fried chicken and cheese ball that was neon orange on the inside. I figured it contained a kind of cheese I hadn’t had before.

There wasn’t a whole lot to tell Paula about the previous seven months. In Medellín, I had written a new book, studied Spanish, and put a lot of energy into sleeping with Colombian women. It included going to the university to hang out in the common areas to ask girls for help with my Spanish. Instead of being the old guy in the club, I was the old guy in school, but thankfully girls like men around 30 years old. I made a couple new friends, dated a really nice girl who pokes me every now and then on Facebook, and played blackjack in the casinos. Life was good, easy, and most importantly of all, cheap.

Colombia had spoiled my return to Brazil because it competed so well on many fronts, including quality of life, cost of living, and women. I had held Brazilian women on a magic pedestal for a long time after my return to the States, but now Colombian women were almost there with them. Picking one over the other would come down to a matter of personal taste because I doubt different men who have experiences with both would consistently arrive to the same conclusion.

My stomach continued to churn as Paula gave me updates on her life and her new boyfriend. I started sweating and figured I could squeeze my ass cheeks together for another half hour before using the bathroom at her place, but it’s amazing how the human digestive system can move at the speed of sound when it wants to. I finally excused myself to visit the bar’s restroom.

The lone toilet was covered with drops of urine and the toilet paper was out, so I quickly grabbed a dozen paper towels from above the sink, put four on the seat, and sat down. My body shook with a tremendous explosion as the entire contents of my bowels ejected in less than three seconds. There was a loud “bloo-bloop” sound and then, just like that, it was over. I lifted my ass to take a peek at what was underneath and thought, “That wasn’t so bad.”

We left the bar soon after and went back in her place, where I had to go again. The only problem was that her bathroom was inside her room, only six feet from the bed. There was nothing I could do to mask the embarrassing ass explosion sounds, not even a dinky ventilation fan. Over the next ten hours I had to go to the bathroom at least fifteen times while Paula slept. Poor girl—I’m sure she thought I was shitting on her head. My anus became so abraded and raw from all the wiping that it felt like I had been sodomized with a Brillo pad. During brief moments of sleep I crossed my legs, for fear that I’d accidently shit on my foam mattress.

Two days later, after a few meals of rice and potatoes, I was fine again. No fever, no lingering pain, and no constant gas. No five-month ordeal like last time.

“Whenever I see you, you’re sick,” Paula said, shaking her head. “Maybe you should see a special doctor.”

“I was healthy the past seven months, I swear!” She probably thinks I was a premature baby and now have to deal with some type of lifelong immune system disorder.

Not wanting to impose, after three nights at her place I checked into a hostel and began looking for an apartment.

—I called Mariana. She picked up on the second ring. I started talking in English without saying my name, to see how long it would take for her to know it was me. It only took a couple seconds.

“It’s so good to hear from you,” she said.

“Guess where I am right now.”

“Rio de Janeiro.”

They say you can tell when someone is smiling or not on the phone, and I like to think she was during our conversation. We chatted for a few minutes and made plans to hang out in two days.

Over the previous 23 months I had thought of her often, but I didn’t overdo it. I didn’t think of her as the solution to my problems and I’d stop myself if I wandered into any girlfriend fantasies. It’s true that she had rarely popped in my head when I was seeing a new girl, but after the dust had settled and I was alone again, I’d remember our time together and wonder if it was the real deal or not. Was I romanticizing a short relationship made intense by what I was going through my last time here, or was she really the one?

Now that I was back in Rio, I had trouble holding back. I got excited. For the next day, all I could do was think about what our reunion would be like. Should I pick her up when we hug? Should I go for the kiss right away? Should we end up in a club after a drink or two at a quiet bar? Should I dress up or keep it simple? Should I trim my beard or keep it a little long? I found myself thinking about things I didn’t usually worry about.

We agreed to meet the next afternoon at 5pm. At first I thought she wanted to meet early because she couldn’t wait to see me, but then I realized she probably had other plans later that night. I was ready to jump to the conclusion that she had another guy. After all, it had been two years. What did I expect? Was she supposed to greet me with open legs and scream, “Take me, Roosh! I’ve been waiting for you all this time!” Back to reality, and that reality is that a lot of time had passed, and people meet other people. Still, her having a boyfriend would destroy my plans for picking up exactly where we left off.

CONTINUED: PART TWO

The Most Important Thing A Man Has

By Roosh

Read this email I received from a guy who calls himself Grandpa…

In Bogota a few years ago I was talking to a HOT Colombian girl. She asked for a drink. I bought one for her and then she walked away. I was pissed. An old Colombian guy at the bar said, “You are new here and do not know what the hell you are doing.” I guess I don’t. He said, “Buy me a beer and I will give you an education that you cannot buy with money.” What the fuck, I might as well lose two drinks.

He gave me the best advice I have ever had that ended up landing me more Colombian pussy than I can count. He said the most valuable thing a guy has, especially an older guy (I was almost 40 then), is his dignity. (Yea, I am older now, but I am living in Brazil with a 22 year old smoking hot girl, with a few more on the side… yea, yea and a cabinet full of Viagra).

He told me the best way to handle when a girl asks me for a drink. First look at your watch and remember the time. Then completely ignore her comment about the drink. Change the subject and just bullshit for five full minutes. He said make sure you time it. You gringos will not be able to stand this situation and it will seem like an hour. After five full minutes, as part of the conversation, ask her what she is drinking, then wait another few minutes. Excuse yourself, go to the bar and get her and yourself a drink (preferable where she cannot see you), and bring it to her. This does a few things for you.

1. You are in charge of the situation, not her. She does not control you.
2. You will use your position of power to take care of her needs.
3. Buying her the drink is on your terms and your timetable, not hers.
4. You do not respond well to commands, especially from a woman. You ignore her commands.
5. You do not get angry with her commands because they are meaningless to you and you are above that.
6. It is okay for her to let you know what she wants, but it is entirely up to you if she gets it, and when she gets it.

The old guy told me that when I immediately bought her a drink she felt uncomfortable being in charge of the situation, and that I was easy and not to be respected or followed. I dated a lot of Colombian women and each of them kicked hard against me. After a while I realized that what they were really asking is “Are you strong enough for me to trust you to lead me?” After a while (weeks) most of the smart one learned to be very sweet and whisper in my ear, “I am getting a little thirsty,” with a sweet Colombian smile.

That place is fucking AWESOME. I got more Colombian stories than you can imagine.

Grandpa

P.S. The doctor who said if your woodie lasts longer then 4 hours, go to the doctor did NOT live in Colombia or Brazil… Happy Hunting.

This email reminds me of my first night going out in Colombia back in April 2009 (it feels like forever ago). In Bogota I went with a tall Croatian man I met at the hostel to a bar in the La Candelaria neighborhood. Almost immediately we started talking to two Colombian girls. The Croat was bursting with energy and doing all sorts of crazy dance moves to hook his girl, while I took on a more laid-back vibe with mine. About twenty minutes into the interaction, she asked me to buy her a drink.

I didn’t have any experience when a girl asks me that in South America, because even in my previous trip it never happened. So I gave her my typical American response: “Do you want me to just write you a check?” The interaction then terminated.

The next morning, the Croat told me how he fucked his girl without a condom and was scared of contracting a sexually transmitted disease.

“Too bad my girl wasn’t open,” I said.

“No dude, your girl was open. You just went with the wrong game. You needed to be more playful instead of bitching her out. Back at the other girl’s place, I thought I was going to get a threesome for a second. I was so close!”

What he said didn’t really register, but over the next several months I realized that my worth to women—especially South American women—was not only in my humor or intellect or even game. It was also my ability to provide, made obvious when you consider the average Colombian girl can barely afford to buy herself a drink. It took me a little too long to realize their value system was different than Western girls.

I had the notion, from my upbringing in America, that a girl must like me for me and not my money or anything “superficial.” I was stubborn about letting this go at first (“But my jokes are so great!”), until I noticed that fucking a girl who likes my jokes versus fucking a girl who likes the fact that I can buy her an imported beer makes no difference to my dick, or ultimately, my happiness. As long as I’m not getting used for either it’s all the same, and I’d be a moron not to use whatever strength I possess to hit the attraction buttons of the local women. Let’s just say that highlighting my ability to provide—in a casual, non-flashy way—did not hurt my results with Colombian women, and is something I’m more aware of displaying in poor countries. It’s a careful balance because if you overdo it you can look like a total douche bag, but then again you shouldn’t go out of your way to hide the fact that you make a couple bucks.

Whenever I think back at the night with the Croat, asking the Colombian girl if she wanted me to write her a check, I cringe. What a rookie mistake.